A Snapshot of Always
by nik47
Summary: 'He lay awake, propped up on one elbow, looking down at perfection.' A brief post-Always moment, set after the storm but before the dawn - reminiscences of seasons 1-4 from Castle's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, I swear this thing started out as a focused story with an actual arc, but as I wrote, it just completely transformed into what's apparently my version of a Caskett love letter, not only from Castle to Beckett, but from me to the show. I just needed to make that clear to anyone jonesing for plot and/or a typical story format. If that's you: run! As for the rest of you, I hope this is something you can enjoy simply for the purity of its Castle-ness!**

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The muted drumming of the rain outside whispered through the loft, its rooms and halls shrouded in shadow, hushed and echoing with emptiness. The clean stainless steel surfaces of the kitchen gleamed dully as the fire in the hearth burned on, forgotten, its licking flames throwing heated silhouettes up the walls and polished furniture, teasing faint flickers of light along the distant pillars of the living room. The burnished hardwood floors stretched all-encompassing throughout, vast and even, the only blight upon their smooth expanse the slumped forms of a sodden leather jacket and two shirts, one black, one maroon, discarded and abandoned near the closed double doors of the master bedroom, rising tall and imposing, silent sentries keeping guard over everything within.

Within, where the staccato beat of water on windowpanes pervaded then diffused, fading quietly into dark corners. Within, where the faint nighttime glow of city lights curled past the edges of closed curtains, limning everything in satin half-tones. Within, where the bed stood fast, a solitary island in a sea of cast off clothing and thrust aside throw pillows. Within, where he lay, awake, propped up on one elbow, looking down at perfection.

She was fast asleep, stretched prone on her stomach, face turned towards him, breathing deeply. The lower half of her body was concealed by the soft swathe of the sheet, but he was still able to make out the contours of her legs beneath, lithe, supple, tangled thoroughly with his own. Her back was bare, soft skin pulled tight across beautifully pliant muscles. Her arms were draped above her, one tucked under the pillow and the other folded over it, partially veiled by the flowing waves of her chestnut hair. Her head was tilted down, chin hidden in the crook of her left shoulder, the sharp slant of her jaw drawing his eyes to the faint outline of long lashes, feathered dark and delicate against smooth cheeks.

Her face was peaceful, utterly relaxed, no cases creasing her forehead, no murders hooding her brows, no victims tugging down her lips, or her heart. He had so rarely seen tranquility in this woman, never, in all of his stolen glances or long looks, caught anything resembling serenity. And yet, that's exactly how he would describe her now. Tranquil. Serene. At peace.

And this, while she was with _him._

He raised his right hand from where it had lain between them and reached up slowly, tentatively, needing to touch her but needing just as much _not_ to wake her, unwilling to risk the dissolution of this moment. His fingers brushed lightly across her temple, barely there, catching on a few strands of wayward curls. Her hair was dry now, all traces of the rain gone, and he reveled in the soft tease of it, the tiny wisps dancing and fluttering as his breath caressed them gently.

She had the most beautiful hair. He'd always been captivated by it, ever since the very beginning, when it had been short and sharp and completely no-nonsense, just like her, just like how she'd been with him. He smiled slightly, lips quirking up as his fingers nudged beneath the stray locks at her cheek to slide them gently home behind the curve of her ear, his hand lingering for a moment in the warmth he found there.

Short-haired Kate. God, she'd been so unbelievably cute. So utterly tough and bad-ass. So quickly riled by his sarcastic comments and so easily flustered by his suggestive remarks. And he'd been exultant to discover it, this power to irritate, been so gleeful at the chance to pull her pigtails. The daily prospect of infuriating her, of eliciting that fire of annoyance in her eyes, that look of exasperation on her face, that unbridled aggravation in every line of her body, that's what had originally kept him coming back, all those years ago.

That…  
And everything else.

She hadn't read him his rights the first night they met, hadn't held him, detained him, or cuffed him (although each of those things had happened very shortly thereafter), but she _had_ arrested him, totally and completely. Arrested him, captivated him, ensnared him in every way. She had tantalized the writer in him, the seeker of stories, the teller of tales. She was the cipher he couldn't quite crack. The closed book he was desperate to read. The mystery he was never going to solve.

His fingers slowly traced the delicate cartilage of her ear before twining back through her thick, wavy locks. Another smile floated across his face. Short-haired Kate would have been appalled at the liberties he was currently taking. Appalled and incensed. He'd have been one-eared and no-nosed by now. Or simply shot dead.

She let loose a soft sigh then, lips twitching up, as if reading his thoughts, and he stilled, hand cupped at the nape of her neck, face so incredibly close to hers. He watched her brow furrow, eyes squeezing more tightly shut, nose crinkling adorably as she pulled in a deep breath before slowly releasing it, lips parting slightly as she did. He felt her left arm shift, elbow brushing gently against his chest as she hugged the pillow closer and nuzzled deeper. He allowed himself to exhale, the sound masked by the steady beat of rain against glass, watching in quiet delight as her face smoothed over, slipping further into dreams.

His skin tingled now where hers had briefly made contact, and he suddenly wanted _more_ contact, needed to imprint the essence of her on every one of his senses. He'd explored the entirety of her body mere hours before, painstakingly lavished attention on every soft surface, fervently mapped out every fascinating feature, but he already knew that he'd never get enough, never have his fill, never be sated. She was a drug, _his_ drug, and this kind of addiction was forever.

He gently disengaged his hand from her hair and returned it to the valley between them, bracing himself before lifting up and leaning forward, body hovering slightly above hers. He was careful to keep his legs still, keep them in place, unwilling to lose the touch of her there, the solid feel of her anchored so securely against him. The warm press of her toes, the smooth slide of her calves, the long length of her thigh, draped casually over his.

Her legs were stunning, a fact he'd been aware of long before he'd actually touched them, or stroked them, or grasped them tighter to his hips as he rocked deeper inside her. The first time he'd gotten a glimpse was seared into his memory, never to be forgotten. The way she'd sauntered into that reading, slowly, seductively, shedding her jacket and striking him speechless. It had been wicked. Deliciously so. To this day, he still couldn't read the last sentence of _Storm Fall_ without flashing back.

And since that first, heart-stopping vision of them, the lure of her legs had only increased. Watching them as they chased suspects. Studying them as they paced the precinct. Staring as they went undercover. Respecting as they crashed through walls. And nearly having a heart attack as they glided wet, glistening, and endless from the cool waters of an L.A. swimming pool. No one would ever call Kate Beckett a killer, but her legs were guilty as charged.

He took a long moment to just gaze at her, starting with the outline of those beautiful legs and working his way up, eyes drinking her in. He traversed every inch of her, every gorgeous inch, and then couldn't help starting over again. If she thought the way he watched her do paperwork was creepy, she'd be mortified at the way his gaze was ravishing her now.

Except that she wouldn't be. Not anymore. He was allowed to ravish. _Encouraged_ to ravish. He shivered slightly as the recollection scorched through his mind, igniting his thoughts like dry tinder. He had always known she would be amazing in bed, had never doubted it. And not because of the hints, and innuendos, and far-from-subtle sexual subtext they'd been batting about for years. Although that had all been really, really fun. And amazing. And _hot_.

And yeah, okay, he _was_ looking forward to experiencing the cuffs without the tiger. And to getting some potential use out of his safe word. And to _finally_ seeing that thing with the ice cubes...

But no, those weren't the reasons why he'd never doubted. Not even close. It was her _passion_ which had made him so certain. The passion which she radiated, day in and day out, the passion which permeated every aspect of her and completely defined her life, suffusing every goal set, every task undertaken, every challenge confronted. He'd never met anyone so _fierce_ before, so utterly unafraid, not only to face the raw truth of things, but to fight for that truth, to champion it when no one else would. He'd been correct all those years ago, when he called her extraordinary. But at the time, he hadn't even comprehended the deep truth of that word. Or the true depth of her.

And she _wasn't_ amazing in bed. She was _life-altering._

His eyes would never grow tired of her, but the rest of his senses were now begging for the same consideration. He tracked the slight rise of her body as she breathed in, then leaned down towards her, careful not to touch, his skin blistering at the nearness of her, at the reflected heat blazing up from her exposed back. She _was_ Heat. Pure, unadulterated Heat. Never before had he named a character in one of his books so aptly.

His eyes slipped closed as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her, unable to stop himself as his nose dipped lower, brushing gently along the length of her spine, nostrils flaring at the myriad fragrances he discovered upon her skin. She smelled of replete desire and spent exertion, fulfilled want and satisfied need. His throat tightened, body stirring at the memory of her hunger for him, of her insatiable craving for _them_. He stopped moving, paused, eyes shut tightly as he struggled to catch his breath, struggled to keep his distance, to remain silent and separate, to preserve this still fragment of time just a little while longer. The faint but distinct aroma of cherries brought him back, lighting his features with a sudden grin.

He remembered that day clearly, remembered the closeness of her body, how he couldn't help but lean into her and search for more of that enticing cherry scent, couldn't help but comment on it, the words spilling from his lips before he'd even realized he was speaking. Her gaze had whipped to his, her eyes dropping without permission to take in his lips. It had been startlingly intense, unexpected, unsought. It was just one of many times they'd been staggered by the pull of each other. He still didn't quite know how they'd managed to resist it all of these years.

But he was unbelievably grateful that he didn't have to resist it any longer…

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**Sorry! Sorry! I know it's an abrupt cut-off. The second half is nearly finished, and will definitely be up sometime tomorrow. Scout's honor. (Damn, I was never a scout...but it's still true!) Like I said at the top, this piece is really nothing more or less than a heartfelt tribute to the amazing characters and extraordinary relationship that we already know and love from the show, and I hope that comes across. Also, I can't even begin to express how delightful it was to revisit all of the past Caskett goodness referenced here! I hope I managed to include/reference some of your fave scenes as well!**

**As always, thanks a ton for reading, guys! Your thoughts, comments, and insights would be and are completely appreciated, so if you've got a sec, the 'Review' button beckons... :)**


	2. Chapter 2

A faint flicker of lightning caressed the room then, followed idly by the undulating rumble of subdued thunder, growling in defeat as the last gasps of the storm ebbed and abated, lazily drifting on from the saturated city below. The rhythmic pulse of rain against windows slackened as the wind dropped and the air stilled, transforming the constant cadence of falling drops to a lilting drizzle, teasing the glass and trickling along the panes, anointing them with the promise of gradual cessation.

His head pulled back as he felt her body react to the change in sound, nose leaving the skin of her neck and eyes watching, rapt, as she shifted beneath him, expanding unconsciously to fill the newfound vacuum of noise, limbs stretching taut, flexing against the stillness around them before easing and settling back into the warm depths of the bed, nestling further, languidly content.

From this vantage point, he could clearly sketch the faint outlines of her lean muscles as they lengthened beneath smooth skin, could easily trace the exquisite lines along biceps, shoulders, and upper back, every loose contour laced with the promise of strength, every indolent curve thrumming with potential energy. Just like the first time he'd laid eyes on this portion of her body.

He had thought her dead that night, believed her killed in the explosion, had watched in disbelief as the flames roiled and raged, brutally annihilating all in their path and wrenching his heart with a pain he had never before experienced. He had been certain that he was too late, certain that she was gone, snuffed out, destroyed in that single terrifying blink of an eye. The yawning absence of her had swallowed him whole, consuming him entirely. And when he had heard her strained coughs and gasps for air over the roaring blaze, had seen the rising glide of her long fingers and the sudden crowning of her soot-streaked hair from over the rim of the tub, he had been jump-started back to being, safely delivered and joyously reborn right alongside her.

Not a stitch of clothing had separated her from his gaze that night, much to her surprised, annoyed, and utterly endearing dismay. But while she had fretted so anxiously – and ludicrously, given the state of her fire-bombed and still-burning apartment – over the absence of a physical barrier between them, he had rejoiced, not in the nakedness of her body, but in the _life_ of it, in the beautiful movement of her intact muscles, in the vital slide of her unbroken skin, in the resolute survival of her tenacious spirit and indestructible soul. He had realized that night, more clearly than ever before, how potent she was. How enduring. A sheer force of nature.

With the slackening of the storm outside, the steady sound of her breathing became more apparent, filling his ears, her body rising as she inhaled, lungs expanding fully before contracting and falling, each exhalation ghosting past soft lips.

The whisper of it broke his reverie, and his right hand rose once more as he finally allowed himself to touch her skin, feather-light, fingers starting at the small of her back and skimming their way up, enthralled as her body responded, even in sleep, to his caress. Her muscles quivered along the path he traced, then arched under his palm as he splayed it briefly across her skin, relishing the softness and warmth of her before continuing on. His fingers tripped gently up her vertebrae then tenderly traced the curve of her scapula, avoiding any hint of pressure, all too aware of the damage she'd been done.

His thoughts clouded at the memory of the bruises he couldn't see, invisible now in the darkness of the room but starkly emblazoned upon the canvas of his mind. They bled across her honey skin in inky swirls and striations, enveloping her curves at knees, shoulders and neck, blooming wide across stomach and hips. Testaments to the crucible she'd endured. His heart compressed, just as it had when he'd first peeled away her clothing and initially exposed them, scant hours before.

He'd been shocked at the vibrant blues and blacks staining her body, had listened in silence, jaw clenched and muscles trembling, as she relived her fight with Maddox and her near plunge from the roof. Her quiet reassurances had done little to halt the ripping explosion of bitter guilt and panic in his chest, and he knew he'd feel it again and again, knew that every time the marks claimed his eyes over the next days and weeks – and probably long after that, when they'd already faded away to nothingness – he'd be filled with agonizing blame and regret, wondering if he could have prevented it all by standing firm, if he could have protected her by simply staying at her side.

But if he _had_ stayed at her side, would she be here at his now?

He let loose a deep sigh as his hand left her shoulders to slide up the slim length of her neck, fingers carding through her silky hair, allowing it to slip slowly loose, strand by strand, struggling to release his doubts and fears in the same way. There was no point in second-guessing his choices of the past seventy-two hours. Nor in second-guessing hers. What was done was done. And everything had led to right here. To them, safe and alive and together.

He dropped a gentle kiss to her shoulder, smiling into her skin as she shivered slightly and instinctively snuggled closer to the press of him. Snuggled. Kate Beckett was a _snuggler._ Oh, he was going to have so much fun with that…

His mouth was on her now, and he was utterly incapable of removing it. His eyes drifted closed as he kissed her body again, parting his lips and tasting her with the soft stroke of his tongue, completely aware that he was rekindling the desire he'd fought just moments ago to suppress but forgetting entirely why he'd tried to suppress it in the first place. She murmured then, something too faint to make out, and his heart stuttered as he felt her breath cascade past his ear and skirl down his neck, inflaming him with its whispery warmth.

He had dreamed of being this close to her for so long, had desired every part of her so intensely, so deeply and profoundly that it had altered who he was, altered every facet of him. Gone was the shallow playboy. Gone was the arrogant jackass. Gone was the womanizing philanderer. Those parts of him had been cast off, stripped away, removed and discarded to make room for the man he was now. The man she had chosen.

He hesitated one instant longer, then succumbed to pure need. His left arm settled over her, covering her back as he leaned in, his chest sliding home against her side, hard planes melding perfectly against soft curves. He reveled in the sensation as her entire length pressed flush with his, her slender body fitting perfectly within his solid frame. His right hand nestled into the curve of her right shoulder, fingers brushing along her clavicle and thumb riding her neck as he drew her towards him, smiling at the unconscious acceptance of her body to his pull, her hips and shoulders uncoiling, twisting perpendicular to the bed as they aligned with his, her left arm sliding down the sheet between them until her elbow tucked in securely against his naval, her fingers now cupping the pillow at her cheek.

He felt her breathing shift at their change in position, knew he'd disturbed the calm soundness of her sleep with his soft insistence for increased contact. He stilled once more, satisfied now that she was ensconced firmly against him, allowing her body to adjust and relax, sensed the tightening of her muscles against his own before they slackened, slipping and conforming, melting deeper into his.

Their postures mirrored one another, faces even, breath mingling, and it only took the slightest dip of his chin to join their warm foreheads together. His eyes traced the line of her nose, the curve of her lips, and the sharp angle of her cheekbones, watching the slight flutter of her dark lashes against smooth skin, unable to see the eyes beneath but not needing to, already wholly familiar with their essence, their fire, their force.

They had always spoken volumes with their eyes, had always connected on so many levels, creating and crafting a beautifully intricate language of looks, a language all their own. They had learned, and shared, and explored, growing with every meeting of green and blue, discovering each other more completely with each passing season through the gazes and glances and glimpses of feeling. It was an indispensable part of them, fundamental to their relationship. The way they revealed their souls in their stares, revealed truths too intense to voice and emotions too overpowering for mere words to encompass. Everything they wanted to disclose but wouldn't, everything they needed to say but couldn't, everything they yearned to tell but didn't. It was housed there, in that safe, unassailable place they had shaped together.

She still hadn't told him she loved him. Not with her words.

But as their breathing had quickened and their touches had grown urgent, as their hearts had raced in tandem and their bodies had finally, _finally_ become one, he had stared into her green depths and read the unmistakable truth harbored within. Read it in _their_ language. In _their_ place. Her staggering love had been etched into every hue and swirl and fleck of her eyes. Carved down to the very core. Written there solely for _him_.

And it was enough. It was more than enough.

Contentment enveloped him as the sounds of the rain outside washed over him, through him, stilling his thoughts and infusing his body with the suddenly heavy pull of sleep. And he realized he was ready to succumb to it, ready to relinquish his hold on this moment, because he _knew_ it wasn't the last, knew that they would make more, so many more. Together.

He studied her quiet features intently for one second longer then extended his neck just far enough for him to grace her lips with his own, bestowing a single, heart-stoppingly tender kiss as his eyelids floated closed and he settled in against her with a sigh, shifting deeper into the embrace and warmth of her, welcoming the approach of peaceful oblivion.

"What're you doing?"

Her soft, sleepy voice startled him, and his eyes fluttered back open, taking her in. She wasn't fully awake, was barely drifting on the near edges of consciousness. Her face was motionless, her body relaxed, her eyes closed. His last kiss must have roused her, stirred her awareness, sparking the question from her lips. He couldn't help but grin at the thought.

"Nothing," he whispered, nudging his nose gently against hers. "Just…" He paused then, searching his mind for the best answer, the truest response he could give. "Just...remembering."

She hummed low in her chest and cuddled closer, eyes remaining shut as her chin tilted forward towards the sound of his voice, her questing lips finding and meeting his lightly before murmuring yet another question. "Remembering what?"

He smiled, mind diving back into the sheer flood of memories, the cherished recollections and the intimate reminiscences, the innumerable twists and turns and trails that his various thoughts had plotted and charted and mapped throughout this endlessly infinite moment, this ethereal snapshot of always.

He leaned in slowly to kiss her again, tracing a path along the crease of her lips, heart leaping when she parted them gently, inviting him in with the warm curl of her tongue. He slid deep and savored the taste of her, drank her down until his senses were brimming, teeming, soul awash with nothing but _her_.

"Everything, Kate," he whispered softly against her skin. "I'm remembering everything."

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**I'm calling this one complete for now, although it's possible I may continue if there's a lot of interest in my doing so, or if/when I have further ideas. This piece was such a delight to write, and I truly hope you enjoyed reading it as well. If you have a spare moment to review, your opinions and insights would make my day! :)**


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